Foresight
by heffy
Summary: The man who had loved her, adored her; the man who had broken with Rome to be with her; the man who once would've done anything to win a smile from her... He was naught but a figment of her imagination and girlish fancies.
1. Chapter 1

_This is a plot bunny that's hopped around my head for some time._

 _Vaguely inspired by Regan X's "Doubt"._

 _Please forgive any spelling errors etc. I typed this up on my phone._

 _There will be further chapters_

 **Chapter 1**

19 May 1536

It didn't matter that she was to die. She was beyond fear. Beyond care.

Truly she had thought Henry would relent. Had thought he would revoke the convictions - knowing her innocent. Knowing that George and Mark Smeaton and Henry Norris and his groom Brereton were innocent.

She had expected him to storm into her cell, gloating at how low he had brought her. Lower even then she had been for his attentions. Before he had raised her to Marquess, then Queen.

Demanding her acquiescence to a divorce.

Perhaps she would've given it - so long as Elizabeth was safe.

Perhaps. But that hardly mattered now.

Now she knew the depths of his hatred. He had commuted her sentence from burning to beheading, but still he would see her dead.

Once he had told her that London would have to melt into the Thames before he would stop loving her, and like a fool she had swallowed his honeyed words.

By god, what a fool she was.

A fool who had fallen for her own charade. Had fallen in love with the king she was merely meant to seduce and bend her will. To her family's will. But slowly and yet all at once it had ceased to be a game.

"Like a moth to a flame," she whispered.  
Her ladies looked to her.

"My Lady?" one asked, hesitantly. Not 'Majesty' now, never Majesty again. Was it not bad enough that Henry would see her labelled an adulteress, and worse yet, one guilty of incest! He would be free of her soon, free to marry the Seymour wench. Yet still his cruelty knew no bounds.

He had annulled their marriage. Made Elizabeth a bastard.

"Are you hungry, my lady?" The servant spoke again. Anne shook her head. These ladies were spies, she knew. There to attend, but more importantly to report her every word, every look, every gesture. She had despised them at first, but now hardly noticed their presence.

She recalled in almost fugue state, how she had seen her father from the window. She had smiled and waved; Glad to see a friendly, beloved face. He had glanced at her and then slowly turned his back on her.

Fool! She thought.

There were no friendly faces. No friends.

Now, too late, she realised that it was human nature to betray.

Had she not betrayed Catherine?

Had Suffolk not betrayed Woolsey?

Had not George (oh, sweet George!) betrayed her?

Even uncle Norfolk and Henry Percy had betrayed her, declaring her guilty.

So many betrayals.

How naive she had been. Dancing through life, thinking herself untouchable.

She was the Kings own heart... Until she was not.

Ha! She had worried for her crown. For her daughter's rights. For her heart... but never for her head.

There was a clank, and the door to her cell opened. In walked a servant with a tray of food.

She laughed, this time out loud, and again the ladies looked at her. Could they not see the humour? The irony of it all? Heaven forbid she should go to the headsman unfed!

And go to the headsman she would. She knew that now.

She had failed to give Henry a son, and she had loved the man and not the crown. She had loved him far too much. Again, such irony.

Perhaps, if she had played the game, but withheld her heart, this entire mess would not have come to pass.

If she had not loved him, she would not have minded his dalliances. He could have paraded a 1000 mistresses in front of her - an entire harem! And she would not have cared a jot.

If she had not loved him, then seeing the Seymour wench on his knee, in his arms, would not have distressed her.

She would have calmly turned and left. She would not have lost her boy. Would not have miscarried of her saviour.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

Still, such flights of fancy mattered little now.

What she knew was that her heart had broken and shattered into a 1000 irreparable pieces when she watched her brother die. She was certain she had felt it blacken and crack. Though she could still feel it beat. A staccato of mockery.

The pain had been unbearable. It had torn a cry from the very depths of her soul. She had wept and screamed and pulled at her hair, but nothing could spare her the horror of realisation: Henry hated her so much, wanted rid of her so badly, that he would murder innocent men. He would murder her.

The man who had loved her, adored her; the man who had broken with Rome to be with her; the man who once would've done anything to win a smile from her... He was naught but a figment of her imagination and girlish fancies.

He was a monster. A spoilt monster who simply could not bear to be denied a toy he wanted. Once he had had her, once she failed to give him the boy he craved... Well, she was no longer of any interest. So he moved onto a new toy, and then the next and the next. Until he found another toy he could not have.

Truly, she should have foreseen that one day another would come along and play the game she had. But Plain Jane Seymour? Who could have foreseen that!

The wench could scarcely write her own name. She had no talents to speak of. She was neither a beauty, nor a wit. Neither graceful, nor charming.

She was unremarkable in almost every way.

But the Seymour wench had learned from Anne. Learned that Henry wanted nothing so much as that which he could not have.

She could see it now: the appeal of Jane lay in her plainness. In her meekness, her mild manners and simplicity. She was the very opposite Anne.

Fair where Anne was dark. Calm where Anne was passionate. Meek where Anne was bold.

Too late, she saw it all.

How foolish she had been:

To underestimate Jane Seymour.

How foolish she had been to ever have loved Henry. More still, how foolish to believe he loved her.

She saw it now, but alas far, far too late.

It seemed forever, and yet no time at all had passed when Master Kingston appeared, flagged by guards.

Finally, it was time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Heaven was a strange thing. Hell even, perhaps, if she were truly damned.

Though for all her many faults and she couldn't believe she was destined for damnation.

Thrice she had prepared. Dressed, prayed, made ready. Twice her death was postponed. A cruel joke, which though logic fought, she could not help but feel false hope that the delays signified a break in Henry's resolve. A recognition of her innocence. But, no.

Out into the cold she had walked, dispensing alms for the poor from a bag of coins. The remaining gold and her forgiveness she gave to the headsman of Calais.

They had knelt to her. Prayed with her.

A flock of birds scattered and took flight into the sky – and then, she was gone.

Ready to be with her bother and best friend, George. Ready to greet her lord and saviour. Ready to watch over her darling Elizabeth. Watch her grow, blossom, love, marry, bear children...

But Heaven was a strange thing. Very unlike anything she had ever envisaged.

She felt tired, truly exhausted. Every part of her hurt, felt languid.

Her eyes, ached as they opened to a blinding light.

Vaguely, she could hear a voice. Calling, calling. Not her name... another.

Sir? My Lord?

Then, George. Sweet, beloved George was before her. They were together in the Lord's Kingdom as she had prayed and dreamed. She had not imagined to feel so weak, but perhaps that was common when being reborn?

George said nothing, just lay with his head on his hand and gazed at her.

"George," she whispered. Her voice was so faint, but she felt her mouth curl into a smile, and hoped he could hear the love and joy she felt in her whisper.

Then next, a blaze of movement, and a figure grasped her hands, almost violently.

"OhPraiseBeToGod!" a fast, fervent cry.

A kiss to her hand, and suddenly a face ablaze with joy filled her vision.

Her Father's face.

"You know what you've done child? You've risen from the dead!"

Her mind, foggy to begin with, seemed to freeze and slow down.

Why was she seeing her Father? She had watched him walk away.

He had not even tried to acknowledge her. He had ignored her smile, her wave. He had turned and walked away. Heartless , spineless coward.

She recalled a time, as a child, when he had loved her. Loved young Mary and George and Anne, not for what they could gain him, but because he was their father and they his children. How the times had altered him.

Why was he here? Had Henry executed him too?

Even so, surely in Heaven, one did not have to see those who caused distress. Surely the Kingdom of Heaven was not as on Earth, where one must keep enemies as close as friends?

"Oh Anne," her shade Father cried. "Now you can see the King again. It can be just as before!"

The King? Her mind was so foggy. Was he mad? Did he refer to the Lord, her God...

Surely he could not mean Henry. Surely in death she was to be free of such pressure and cruelty?

She was so tired. Her head lolled to the side. Her eyes staring, unseeing, barely open.

What was this place? There seemed no fire and brimstone. So surely not Hell.

Yet, despite the presence of George, this hardly seemed Heaven. She had never imagined to feel so weak and poorly. And George, he smiled so serenely. There was no hint of the horror they had shared .

Then to hear her Father's voice. His unfeeling words echoing in her aching head.

Echoing... yes. She recalled the echo of those words...

Oh God. She had _felt_ this way before. Weak, tired, aching in every bone. And she had _heard_ those words before.

When she awoke from the sweat.

What was this? Purgatory? Was she doomed to relive her foolery, her pride, and her betrayal over and over again?

Her pulse pounded. Her eyes swept around the room. She saw George, smiling like the sun, with no shade cast over his eyes.

And her Father. No guilt, no shame. Relief and joy radiated from his entire being. Yet still, there was no shade in his eyes either. He looked at her as though she were the sun, and seemed to expect his words to bring her joy.

She could see the King again, and all would be as before.

Ha! To which horror did he refer? The hatred Henry showed in every word and glance? The countless infidelities paraded in front of her? The loss of two children? The way she was made to feel she should regret the birth of her darling Elizabeth (for after all, she was not a boy)? Or perhaps did he mean it would be as the time of her arrest and confinement to the Tower? Did he mean the moment she watched the axeman end George's life – to the cheers of the crowd. Or possibly, he meant it could be as before, when Cranmer came to tell her that her marriage had been annulled and her darling Elizabeth, the one pure product of their star-crossed love story, made a bastard.

Which time did her Father mean to promise would be 'as it was before'?

Gods blood! She would rather her neck be hacked off by a drunken swordsman again and again than live through the nightmare of her marriage once more. The pressure. The loneliness. The betrayal.

Overwhelmed with fatigue and ennui, Anne closed her eyes and succumbed to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

 _...No more to you at this present, mine own darling, for lack of time, but that I would you were in mine arms, or I in yours, for I think it long since I kissed you..._

A sharp bark of laughter escaped Anne's lips as she crushed the letter in her fist.

It had been little over a day since she had opened her eyes and found George, whole and intact. Her father; his usual arrogant self. And she, no longer Queen of England.

She was in neither Hell, nor Heaven – but instead, Hever.

It was impossible, and yet it was so.

Her head still topped her long neck. She could hear, taste, feel. She was, somehow, alive.

But worse than the confusion, the déjà vu, and the isolation, was her intense feeling of loss.

 _Elizabeth_.

Her own heart. Her child. Her beautiful, darling girl was gone… or more accurately, did not exist.

She had thought to speak to George, for surely he too, recalled the recent horror. But a few words hinting at their executions, indirect though they were, left a puzzled frown on his brow and a look of great concern in his eyes.

"You are still not fully recovered, sister." He had said. "No doubt your fever has left you somewhat befuddled." He had clasped her hand, and kissed it. "Rest."

And that had been that.

Either George had grown into an extraordinary actor, or he truly did not remember. Or perhaps, more accurately, _could_ not remember, for he had never experienced it...

And then had come the letter and the gift.

 _His_ letter. _His_ gift.

She recalled it well. Remembered how her heart had swelled with love and felt as though it might burst.

Now. Now it turned her stomach.

"Anne."

The voice of her father came from over her shoulder.

"Is aught wrong?" He looked at the crumpled letter in her hand.

"What says the King? Is he displeased with you?"

Anne turned her head to look out the window. "No Father, I am the King's own darling. For now," she said, tonelessly.

"For now?" Her Father queried. "Does he write to you of Katherine? Of his Great Matter?"

He came near and moved to sit beside her.

Anne stood up, and turned, eyes flashing.

"No. He writes of his yearning for me and other such drivel. Here," she threw the crumpled parchment to him. "Read for yourself."

She turned and headed out of her room, toward the gardens.

Thomas Boleyn stared after his daughter's retreating figure. He could not recall the last time Anne had willingly shared one of the King's letters. And to call their contents drivel? He could scarcely reconcile it. He had grown greatly concerned that Anne had fallen for her own deception; had fallen in love with the King.

He would prefer her to remain an impartial player… but of late, her words, her conduct, did not speak of impartiality. Nor even of disinterest.

They spoke of scorn.

It was late afternoon when He arrived.

He was preceded by an envoy who invited the Lady Anne to meet him in a glade within the grounds of Hever.

She could recall this moment from a time before. A frenzy of joy and love.

She had survived the sweat. Surely it meant that God blessed her; blessed their union.

It had been such a joyous reunion, and in that moment it had seemed that a bright and beautiful future lay ahead of her.

She heard the clip of hooves as his horse drew near. She could tell the moment he saw her, his face filling with a fierce, determined look.

She could feel her heart pounding. The last time she had seen his face she had held Elizabeth in her arms and pleaded for another chance.

 _Elizabeth_.

He had looked at her then with a savage intensity too. There was a difference to each look. Now, his eyes didn't blaze with hatred – instead they blazed with a primal joy.

Once upon a time that fire had warmed her; now it burned.

She could scarcely begin to comprehend how she felt. Her thoughts whirled, and she felt as though she might faint.

His face, once so beloved. Oh, how greatly she had loved him… and how _badly_ he had hurt her in return. So cruel.

Swiftly, he dismounted and ran toward her. She remained on her horse.

"Stay back," she cried. Her heart pounding faster.

He stopped his progress toward her and stared. "Anne?"

She could hear the confusion in his voice. Oh, that voice. What honeyed words it could whisper. What cruel taunts too.

He began to move toward her again.

"Sweetheart. I have been heartsore for the sight of you. The sound of your voice. I prayed God would spare you – and he has."

Anne almost scoffed, but checked herself just in time. She did not want another visit to the scaffold.

Though neither did she wish for him to touch her.

 _Liar. Lecher._ Her mind whispered.

 _Beloved_ , added the traitorous voice of her heart. The image of Henry holding Elizabeth, their hair and profiles so similar, flashed into her mind. Her heart clenched with pain.

Her mare jerked its head and gave a nicker of unease. Henry stopped, as the horse stomped its hooves in obvious anxiety.

She needed to calm down. Her horse was on the verge of bolting, perhaps even rearing; either move was likely to throw her off. It would be beyond ironic to 'survive' the headsman only to break her neck falling from a horse.

Besides, she was renowned for her horsemanship; her pride would not let her disgrace herself.

But she _needed_ Henry to stay away from her.

Her heart and mind were maelstroms of emotion. Flashes of then and now. But now was then... and then was _now_ …

She felt almost as though she were going mad.

'Anne,' Henry whispered looking at her with confusion. And love.

A choked sob escaped her lips. By God this was a cruel. Only recently she would have given almost anything to have him gaze at her thus. But then such looks were reserved for the Seymour wench.

"… _that you shall be burnt here within the Tower of London on the Green, else to have your head smitten off, as the king's pleasure shall be further known…_ " The voice of her Uncle echoed through her mind.

She recoiled at the memory.

"No, NO! I cannot!"

The words ripped from her throat unbidden. She only realised she had given voice to her thoughts when Henry darted forward and grabbed the reins of her horse.

"Anne, what is it? What has happened?!"

His shout, forceful and insistent, stilled her. It didn't calm her, not precisely... but it brought a sense of frigid normality back to her.

This... yes, this is a voice she remembered. Demanding. Razor sharp. Furious.

Now, the fury was not directed at her, but the tone was enough to whip her senses into focus.

Anne forced her fists and thighs to unclench. She concentrated on her breathing.

"Majesty," she said, her voice wobbling slightly, despite her attempts at composure.

Her thought whirled rapidly, formulating a plausible excuse for her erratic behaviour. An excuse which would also keep him at bay.

"Forgive me," she dissembled.

Henry faltered, a frown marring his brow. "Feel you still unwell, mine sweetheart? My physician swore to me that you were out of danger."

 _I am safe from the sweat, but not the sword_ , Anne thought.

She seized on the excuse with alacrity.

"Forsooth, I feel quite ill…"

Henry feared nothing so much as illness. Save perhaps the lack of a son.

"I must lie down." She turned her horse and with made haste back to Hever, leaving the King standing dumbfounded in her wake.

As she urged her horse faster, her mind worked furiously. She needed to get control of herself.

Her respite would be brief. Henry would follow her. Her father would want answers.

Rejection and retreat would not serve her long.

Between her father's unquenchable ambition and the King's prideful lust, even trying to ignore or push Henry away would be impossible.

No, emotion would not serve her.

Indeed, upon reflection, emotion had been her downfall.

She needed to be logical.

She needed to be _calm_.

She needed a plan.


End file.
